


Ubhuti

by Arowen12



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Brotherhood, Brothers, Erik lives, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, T'Chaka adopts Erik
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-21 23:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13751028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arowen12/pseuds/Arowen12
Summary: N'Jadaka turned to T'Challa as the sun kissed the roofs of the tallest building and extended his hand, eyes serious and a little bit wise like the ancient mountains surrounding Wakanda.“Brothers?”T'Challa felt the weight of the word, it wrapped around his heart and echoed in his ears as he clasped forearms with N'Jadaka and nodded.“Brothers.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here is it, an AU where N’Jadaka – Erik Killmonger is raised by T’Chaka, though not everything will be fluff. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Black Panther is the property of Marvel

X

T’Challa was ten when his father returned from a mission overseas, his steps were heavy beneath the mantle of the Black Panther and his eyes were two yawning crescents, with such anguish and pain that the young prince dropped his eyes and focused instead on the boy at his sides. There were tears in the boy’s eyes, deep eyes that tug at the soul, that look like they were happy once, and around the boy’s neck was a ring like the same on T’Challa’s father’s finger, one that T’Challa will one day wear when he sits upon the throne. A large leather book was tucked under the young boy’s arms, he looked about eight and that his whole world had fallen apart.

“T’Challa this is your cousin N’Jadaka.”

His father said in that rolling booming voice, and there was a world of something behind those words that he couldn't grasp at even as T’Challa’s eyes widened in surprise as he observed the young boy, N’Jadaka, in a new light. T'Challa observed the tears with a new severity, because T’Challa had an uncle, a man who had always been a distant spectre of his memories, but the uncle that sneak’s sweets at the summer festivals, and always had a joke brightening his eyes. And he was not there but his son is, and the realisation is slow and fast with all the punch of one of his training sessions.

T’Challa knows life more than he knows death, in tiny hands and eyes wide with wonder, but he had experienced lost so he mustered a warm smile for the younger boy, and the ice, burning ice that was like a ceaseless fire diminished slightly in the wake of a small half-grin.

It was later after the news of his uncle’s death was announced to the council of elders, and after N’Jadaka had been shown to a room right next to T’Challa’s. When his home lingered with the quiet of the night, that he sneaked out of his room. It was beyond late and he knew if he was caught he would be disciplined terribly, but T'Challa couldn't resist the inescapable need to check on his young cousin. So, he left his room and crept into the one next to his own.

N’Jadaka’s room is bare where the young prince slipped inside, clean and airy with all the sense of a guest room and nothing of a home. It made T’Challa frown even as he caught sight of his cousin leaning against a wall by one of the windows. He was nothing but a shadow, head to his knees and hands around something close to his chest in the light of their city, and there was something mournful and sorrowful in the almost prayer-like position.

N’Jadaka turned as the light from the hallway filtered inside with a warm glow, and T’Challa stood there wordlessly, hesitant and unsure if he was welcome but patient enough to wait. After a moment his cousin nodded, and the young prince took it as an invitation and paced across the shadow swept room, hues of gold burnt ember in the darkness adding some warmth to the otherwise cool darkness.

T’Challa settled beside his cousin wordlessly, the two gazing out at the bright collage of lights, flickering like a sea of endless fireflies. T’Challa knew that he would never tire of the sight of the city of Wakanda, with its endless vibrant beauty, the architecture, the people, it was his home, and glancing at his younger cousin the prince hoped it could be N’Jadaka’s too.

“My father used to tell me of the sunsets of Wakanda, he said they were the most beautiful in the world.”

His cousin said, quiet and hesitant as if he was unsure of speaking of the man who will be buried at sunrise tomorrow. T’Challa didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent and they sat there in the calm silence the night bustling around the two young boys.

“What was California like?”

He finally asked, searching for something harmless and to satisfy the curiosity he harboured over his relatively new cousin.

“The skies are always blue, and the beaches are golden, I use to play basketball every day with the kids in the neighbourhood…”

N’Jadaka trailed off and sniffled obviously homesick, and so very lost in the world he is quite suddenly was a part of, and T'Challa remembered what that was like, remembered missing home, or his father when he was on a mission. So T'Challa slid a little closer to his cousin and didn't comment on the soft sobs that breached the near soundlessness of the room and he tried to provide what comfort he could with his presence.

“He killed him… your father.”

N’Jadaka stated painful and short in the silence, like the strike of a spear through T’Challa’s heart, the word, father, something broken and lingering with longing. He swallowed the words down like the bitter medicine he was forced to take when he had a fever as a young child. He wanted to protest, wanted to yell, deny, demand anything to take the words and throw them back into the void of night lingering outside the window, but instead, he said, “I’m sorry N’Jadaka.”

T’Challa knows it was not his actions he was apologizing for, maybe it was his father’s, maybe it was for all that had befallen his cousin. N’Jadaka looked startled at the apology, as if he hadn’t expected to receive one, or maybe that T’Challa had apologized instead of responded in denial, and suddenly his cousin’s eyes were a touch warmer where they glow in the light of the city.

His cousin remained silent for a moment more, but the air between the two was lighter, and for a single moment they were just two boys in the dark observing the world go by, no responsibilities, no future waiting on their shoulders, no morning to dread. N’Jadaka turned to T’Challa then, the moment of peace gone and in the dark fear danced across his cousin’s features, no longer did he look too old, too wise for his age. T’Challa was reminded in that moment just how young his cousin was.

“What will happen to me?”

N’Jadaka asked quiet and so very young sounding as he looked at T’Challa. The older boy paused for a moment thinking like the King his father wanted him to be, to think realistically, of succession, of his father’s eyes. And then he thought with his heart and he replied, “We’re family, you are welcome here.”

The words seemed to cut the tension holding his cousin up as the youth slumped against the wall, turning away to glance out at the city and beyond the broad plains of Wakanda and the towering forests.

T’Challa gazed with him for a moment before he smiled as an idea occurred and he reached over to tug on N’Jadaka’s hand. His cousin turned, an inquisitive look gracing his features and an excited smile stole across T’Challa’s face as he said proudly with all the logic of a child, “If we’re family, then you need to meet Shuri.”

Confusion fleeted across N’Jadaka’s face at the unfamiliar name, but T’Challa gave the younger boy no time for questions as he pulled the smaller boy to his feet. T’Challa led him from the room with soft feet and into the hallway, peering out the doorway for guards before leading him forward. The prince paused only once on their mission, to glance behind him and smile at his cousin who was both excited and curious before he continued pulling them through the long corridor on silent feet with watchful eyes.

The two paused outside of one of the doors, ornate metal glinting in the lamplight of the hallway, much like all of the other doors in the hallway, though close to T’Challa’s parents'room. The prince turned to his cousin and smiled at the confusion still painting his features as N’Jadaka mouthed a confused, “What?”

T’Challa simply shook his head and pushed a finger against his lips, before pushing the door open with a soft soundless whoosh and leading his cousin inside.

Shuri was resting in the cradle swathed in blankets, and so incredibly small and fragile like the butterflies T’Challa sometimes saw in the gardens. But her eyes already burned with fierce fire when she was awake disavowing such a notion and T'Challa loved her all the more for it. The two children paused and leaned over the crib to look at the infant, and T’Challa caught the awe that painted his cousin’s features at the sight of the small infant.

“N’Jadaka this is Shuri.”

T’Challa announced fondly gazing at the sleeping babe, who at the mention of her name gurgled happily and opened her eyes staring at the two of them curiously, one small chubby arm reached towards T’Challa. Laughing quietly the young prince let his baby sister’s tiny hand wrap around his finger even as he glanced up and grinned at his cousin.

Tentatively, with a nod from the older boy, N’Jadaka let his own hand reach inside the crib, and Shuri grasped onto one of his fingers gurgling happily with all the innocence of a child. Usually, his younger sister was wailing her lungs out as if trying to announce her presence to the world but tonight she was quiet and it brought a gentle smile to T’Challa’s lips to see the infant smile up at the two of them. She reminded him of what he protected, who he would protect as King. T'Challa glanced at his cousin, heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears he promised, “We’re family N’Jadaka we protect our own. I’m going to protect you, just like I’m going to protect Shuri.”

N'Jadaka blinked eyes wide at the proclamation before he nodded and grinned, smile blinding like the sun coming out of hiding on a cloudy day.

The two children froze as they heard the gentle patter of footsteps in the hallway, echoing and rolling like an alarm bell in the small room. T'Challa shared a wide-eyed look of worry with his cousin, thoughts of getting caught on both their minds. Quickly T'Challa led the two boys to the far side of the room opposite the large windows and hopefully hidden from sight.

The door to the nursery slid open, and in the glow of the hallway T'Challa’s mother peered inside the room, gaze concerned but warm as her eyes passed over the crib. N'Jadaka glanced at T'Challa the two holding their breaths with grins a mix of mischief and worry. With a final survey of the room and a small smile, the Queen turned away and the door slid quietly shut behind her.

N'Jadaka glanced at T'Challa and the two grinned sharing quiet giggles and the occasional glance at the door for caution. After a moment T'Challa crept back to the crib, N'Jadaka following carefully behind the young Prince. T'Challa leaned over the railing and placed a small kiss on his sister’s head, before moving aside to let N'Jadaka do the same at the warm glow he found in his cousin's eyes. Shuri made a soft happy noise followed by a yawn and the two boys shared a look before creeping once more out of the room and down the hallway.

They slipped into N'Jadaka’s room and to the windows gazing side by side as the sun crested the city with brilliant light hues of gold and turquoise beginning to paint the night sky.

On impulse, T'Challa turned to face N'Jadaka and watched the awe and wonder colour his features.

The two lingered in the silence basking in the sun’s graceful assent as colours continued to splash upon the sky with verdant beauty.

N'Jadaka turned to T'Challa as the sun kissed the roofs of the tallest building and extended his hand, eyes serious and a little bit wise like the ancient mountains surrounding Wakanda.

“Brothers?”

It was a question, promise, offer, and plea all wrapped into one word. T'Challa felt the weight of the word, it wrapped around his heart and echoed in his ears as he clasped forearms with N'Jadaka and nodded.

“Brothers.”

He affirmed and in the silence the word rang, and T'Challa smiled at his brother, and N'Jadaka grinned in return as the sun seated itself upon the skies of Wakanda.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the start of this fic, I am planning a few more chapters. I am also looking for a beta, preferably someone with a black background to help with the cultural aspects. Reviews/comments are always super appreciated, till next time!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, here is the next chapter, setting up a bit more plot. Even with a fix-it not everything is going to be perfect. I hope you all enjoy, read on!
> 
> Blank Panther is the property of Marvel Studios

X

They ran through the fields with abandon, N’Jadaka chasing T’Challa as the sun shone brightly above the two, in skies so blue they seemed near tangible as if T’Challa could run his fingers through the seas of it. The older brother glanced behind him as the long stalks of grass grasped at his legs, soil firm and ticklish between the soles of his sandals, laughter bounding through the air, and a smile danced across his features. N’Jadaka grinned back at T’Challa even as he sped up long legs gaining distance as the (temporarily) taller prince drew closer to T’Challa.

Whipping around at the last minute, knowing when to give up the chase, the older brother braced himself letting N’Jadaka crash into him with a happy laugh and a huff. The two began rolling on the ground the instant they touched down clambering over each other and pushing at the stalks of grass as they scrabbled for purchase over the other, grinning carefree and bright up at each other.

After a minute more of rolling about through the dirt T’Challa tumbled off of N’Jadaka with a breathless huff, feeling the adrenaline blazing its way through his system and lighting his veins on fire. He laid peacefully beside his brother, the two panting, breaths heavy upon the air as they grinned up at the skies, restless twitching belaying the energy still thrumming beneath his fingers. T’Challa listened to the sound of his brother’s exhales, to the wind whistling through the long grass, he basked in the warmth of the sun and the simple sensation of being and let his heart slow, steady and sure in his chest. The lack of responsibilities, lessons droning on an endless march through his mind, history, and technology and a thousand other things drifted away in the warmth of the sunlight and his brother’s presence.

“T’Challa?”

N’Jadaka asked softly and faint, a murmur of his name lingering with fondness. T’Challa rolled over in the feathered grass to gaze at his younger brother, N’Jadaka’s eyes, always so incredibly expressive, remained focused on the skies above.

“Hmm?”

The older prince made a vague sound of acknowledgement, fiddling with stalks of grass as he waited for his brother to speak. N’Jadaka rolled over after a minute and gazed into T’Challa’s eyes for a moment before he responded, “Do we have to go back?”

Back to responsibility, to T’Challa’s father, to expectations. The question lingered with something else, N’Jadaka’s eyes something half shaded in the shadows of the grass stalks. T’Challa smile reassuringly, and even as he almost wanted to say something else he jokingly responded, “Shuri would be mad if we abandoned her to our parents.”

The shadows cleared if only slightly and N’Jadaka nodded a bright grin splashing over his features so that they lit like the great star above them, when N’Jadaka smiled, he always smiled with every part of himself, his soul shining through his eyes and every inch of him. Few saw that true smile and all its brilliance, N’Jadaka was far from wearing his heart on his sleeve for all that it was the deepest part of him.

“We can’t leave Shuri alone, who will teach her how to properly prank the guards?”

N’Jadaka continued eyes mischievous and sparkling, T’Challa grinned thinking of the innumerable pranks N’Jadaka had roped the older brother somewhat reluctantly into, and nodded responding easily, “Exactly.”

The silence lingered as the two continued to breathe, studying the distant whimsical clouds on their careless flight, and listening to the whispers of the stalks around them. After a moment N’Jadaka quietly said, “Did you know the United States elected a black president for the first time in their history?”

It was said soft and distant as if trying to pass as a comment on the weather. Regardless T’Challa’s shoulders tensed, but he nodded, recalling the media images their tutor had shown them with something close to pride but rippled through by a centuries-old pain.

His younger brother remained quiet for a moment longer, thoughts lingered like the clouds above them, before he continued, “Do you think it will change anything?”

T’Challa knew the response to that question, knew it deep inside the cavity of his chest. But he remained silent, unsure of how to proceed, how to temper the fury, so very righteous and honest and true, that always filled N’Jadaka like a rainfall when they talked of the situation of their brothers the world over, and Wakanda’s own isolationism.

As if sensing dark thoughts, a cloud passed over the sun, temporarily casting a veil of shadows over the world before it fell away the next moment. T’Challa didn’t give his brother a moment longer to contemplate it as he rolled over, and onto his brother with a knowing grin. The younger boy protested with a loud exhale of air hands helplessly tugging at T’Challa’s arm.

The older brother only laughed as N’Jadaka whined and batted weakly at T’Challa’s arms in an attempt to dislodge the older brother. Reluctantly after a minute the oldest prince rolled off his brother and carefully levered himself to his feet, extending an arm to his brother with a knowing look submerged beneath a flash of teeth and the curve of his lips.

N’Jadaka took the outstretched hand, and T’Challa easily pulled the younger to his feet, the two princes standing side by side as the grass swayed about their feet. Glancing once more at the sky T’Challa sighed and stated somewhat morosely, “We should probably head back, mom will yell at us if we’re not presentable for dinner.”

The younger boy nodded mulishly and responded, “Don’t want to anger auntie.” With all the knowing wisdom of any young boy facing a mother’s prerogative before he visibly brightened and leaned over and tagged T’Challa on the arm. With a happy wave and bright laughter, N’Jadaka sprinted in the direction of Wakanda, its peaks and spirals glinting and shining where the sun reflected, as if calling them home. T’Challa stared for a moment before a determined grin tugged at his lips and he charged after his brother, heart pumping loudly in his ears as the wind rustled around him.

Within a few minutes they entered the first settlement, sitting on the outskirts of Wakanda, the citizens, going about daily life, stopped to watch as T’Challa chased N’Jadaka through the main street that paved a pathway to the general centre and marketplaces of Wakanda. Laughter echoed upon the air as they ducked around a cart, jumped over small walls, or whatever suited their fancy on their path chasing after one another with reckless abandon.

T’Challa for a minute prayed his brother would slow when they entered the inner city, bustling with vibrant life, bright colours draping near every surface with patterns calling in the summer air, the thick heady scent of heavy spices, cooking meat, and the light smell of juicy fruits, the chatter bursting and bubbling forth in a mix of Xhosa and other African dialects that flowed like one language, one great song, all reflecting the light of Wakanda’s people. T’Challa always wanted to stop when they entered the city and just absorb the sheer brilliance of life. At the moment, however, N’Jadaka grinned tauntingly back at T’Challa, brown eyes lit like a fire crackling merrily with mischievousness that harkened N’Jadaka’s soul as his younger brother winked and ducked into the busy streets. The older, and far more mature, brother shook his head and muttered about discipline and madness before following with the same spirit.

The two brothers weaved around people in a near endless game of hid and seek as they slipped out of view for a moment popping up a few feet away as they swerved around small groups of people tucked in the corners of the streets, or lines at the food vendors that sometimes seeming to stretch on and on forever. There was a good cheer about the afternoon air even as a few people stared with obvious exasperation at the two princes sprinting through the streets.

N’Jadaka finally slowed as they arrived at the centre of Wakanda, T’Challa panting happily behind him, their home proud and gleaming, familiar architecture, spirals, and designs that harkened to their ancestors, inspiring awe where it towered above them, reaching as if to touch the sky. The guard, a bright presence in crimson armour, at the door studied the princes with a quirk of her lips and grinning eyes, her features kind and bright as she slipped aside to let the two enter, eyeing the dust coating their clothing with something close to amusement.

The two princes stepped out of the lift, carefully glancing around with cautious eyes for the sight of T’Challa’s mother, or his father, the Queen would probably, almost definitely throw a fit if she caught them tracking dust everywhere, and that wasn’t to detract from whatever T’Chaka’s reaction could be. Though she probably already knew, that mystical sixth sense all mothers seemed to have, T’Challa acknowledged with something close to a mournful sigh. N’Jadaka nodded, signing the way was all clear, and beckoned the two forward with a wave of his hand, it was safe, for a short time.

T’Challa glanced at N’Jadaka, then around the spacious room, as they entered the main complex and spotted Shuri sitting on the counter, feet swaying merrily, and a low humming beat resounding throughout the room. Their younger sister glanced up at the two as they entered, finally pulling her focus away from the tech in her hands, though T’Challa doubted she would ever truly be parted from it. The young princess rose an elegant eyebrow at the dust still covering their clothing, and the evidence of the sunlight brightening their eyes. She shook her head with a knowing look even as she returned to the piece of vibranium in her hands.

“Mom’s not going to be happy.”

Shuri stated simply, a mix of warning and the joy a sibling felt when the other was going to get into trouble, lining her voice. N’Jadaka scoffed and shook his head, muttering about getting caught first and chores. While T’Challa wisely decided to stay quiet for the moment already knowing the truth and having seen the dusty footprints he doubted they would escape entirely without being flayed alive.

“Same for you there, dear sis.”

T’Challa warned with a laugh on his breath as he slid over to his sister, he leant casually against the counter and nodded towards the glowing tablet in her hands. Their father had originally been vastly opposed to Shuri becoming entwined with vibranium and all it’s technological wonders, preferring, like much of Wakanda, to follow tradition, or least to lead his youngest daughter away from tech. But Shuri had those perfect eyes that could turn a steel hardened man to nothing but goo, suffice to say T’Chaka hadn’t lasted five minutes before he caved.

The oldest prince believed that it was the right decision, Shuri was already shaping to be a genius, understanding concepts of technology most kids struggled to grasp, he still fondly recalled her toddler years. Endless talking, and endless questions all manner of the day, at any time. It was still much the same now, though perhaps a bit more tempered by her own wit and ability to find things on her own when needed.

Shuri would at heart never be a traditionalist, her spirit was just as wild as the older princes’ and their mother was usually less the pleased when Shuri skipped on lessons or scoffed at tradition. Hence the no technology ban for a week (their mother would relent after three days of sad-kicked-puppy looks) after the somewhat disastrous dinner with the Border Tribe.

N’Jadaka made a hum of agreement nodding his head with all the presence of someone knowing from experience as he slid beside T’Challa handing him a rough damp cloth. The elder prince nodded his head in gratitude and cleaned away the dust with careful movements, before turning to N’Jadaka and catching the dust that lingered where the younger had missed with a half-gentle motion that almost earned him a swat.

Shuri rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue at the two, the picture of mature before her eyes lit up with something not quite vindictive but pleased nonetheless. T’Challa silently mourned a future where Shuri and N’Jadaka would work together to prank Wakanda into oblivion.

“At least I don’t have a council meeting in an hour.”

The two brothers shared an equally startled look, one followed by a look of horror. T’Challa silently rested his palm against his forehead and he wondered how he could have forgotten even as he mourned the existence of such meetings. Across from him, N’Jadaka made an aborted motion to swear (he had picked up the most interesting slang from America and would likely happily teach Shuri in the future, he had already proudly taught T’Challa most of what he knew) before N’Jadaka glanced at their younger sister and instead resigned himself to shaking his head in mourning.

As if announcing their doom, the hydraulic hiss of the lifts opening echoed throughout the living space, and Shuri shot the two a warning look full of bright-eyed amusement as she tucked the small tablet out of sight and pulled out a thin novel. N’Jadaka reached over and ruffled her short hair quickly with a muffled, “Brat.” before the two brothers sprinted out of the room, dread at the council meeting already lingering like clouds over the once bright sunlight of the day.

X

T’Challa stood behind his father, N’Jadaka on the other side of the throne as the council of elders gathered around the King. They were both doing their best attempt to imitate stone statues, perfectly apathetic and attentive as T’Chaka spoke to the elder council, about local trade between the tribes, the status of their people, their War Dogs, stationed in the outside world, patrols on the border. It was one of the duller meetings T’Challa had had the pleasure attending, though most were dull, and he didn’t aggrieve the obvious peace and lack of conflict it signified. Still, he knew N’Jadaka has likely started counting the beads on the leader of the mining tribe's robes, again. The meetings were rarely ever anything close to exciting, Wakanda had known peace for many years, the closest to trouble was perhaps when Klaue was spotted on the North American continent a near year ago.

The older prince shivered at the memory, though he made sure it was imperceptible to the members of the council, as he recalled the tense council meeting and the shadow stricken afterwards. There had been yelling, from all members of the council, waring over chasing after the man who had been a blight on Wakanda’s history for many years, and others dismissing the man for the American authorities.

N’Jadaka had vibrated with rage at the mention of the man who had been in accordance with his father's, T’Challa's Uncle's, death, the emotion filling his eyes like the spirit of Bast had descended. When T'Chaka had dismissed the concerns of the council, preferring to put the incident, memories of his brother’s death and his betrayal behind him, the warmth T’Challa had known all his life had frozen over, something cold as ice when the final verdict was delivered to leave the criminal in the North Americans’ hands. The older brother had seen the way N’Jadaka's fingers had bleached pale where they dug into his palms and sympathized with both his brother and his father, T’Challa couldn’t imagine the pain of N’Jadaka betraying him, or watching N’Jadaka hurt one of his family members.

After, T’Challa had wrapped his brother's hands with gauze, where crescents of blood welled up, and N’Jadaka had seethed. It was the wordless fury, the kind that T’Challa had seen only twice in his brother, and once tugging at his own emotions, till they were buried beneath an all-consuming cold wrath.

It scared him. That anger and what fell away in its place, boundaries, laws, religion, everything seemed to fall by the wayside as it surged like a thick taint. To stop N’Jadaka’s anger before it consumed him, T’Challa had offered a spar, hoping to soothe the young prince. He had returned bruised, far more bruised than any previous training sessions, his brother had followed in the same manner.

Minutely shaking away phantom pains, T’Challa glanced at his brother, who shared a soft hidden smile and a raised brow eyes pointing at the leader of the Water tribe. T’Challa muffled a laugh, grin pulling at the corner of his lips as he attempted to maintain a serious expression. He rolled his eyes at his brother even as his eyes strayed to the Water tribe leader, they had rather unfortunately fallen asleep, though few would be able to tell with the open eyes and somewhat attentive features. When you spend enough time standing still as a statue with little entertainment, you notice many more things than one normally would; T’Chaka had laughed at their complaining and called it practice, N’Jadaka called it torture.

N’Jadaka subtly tapped his knuckle with his finger and T’Challa mirrored the action with a hidden grin as the unspoken joke passed between the two. The older Prince froze as his mother turned slightly in her seat to send the two a warning look. Eyes in the back of her head T’Challa and N’Jadaka swore on it. The Queen shook her head slightly, a fond smile for the two of them and their antics playing across her features and making them glow before it disappeared as she returned her focus to the council. T’Challa could only wonder how his mother would handle Shuri when she would be old enough to sit on the council. Already the little genius has shown an intense dislike of formality, not that T’Challa could blame the young girl.

N’Jadaka mimed snapping with his fingers beside T’Challa, the older prince nodded and glanced briefly behind him where the sun was beginning to set, and the dark hues of night were descending upon the sky with relish and grace. As if sensing the late hour, the murmurs of a council drew to an almost soundless rustle as the King studied the gathered elders with wisdom like stars on his brow, and with all the love of a King for his people.

The elders bowed their heads in respect as T’Challa’s father finished the council meeting, slowly shifting out of their chairs older bones creaking in protest. The leader of the Merchant tribe stepped forward to converse with T’Chaka in private for a moment as the two princes watched silently, the anxious desire to escape the throne room escaping in a drum of fingers and traded eye rolls.

Finally, the council room was empty of all but T’Challa’s family, and the guards, glinting crimson in the hues of the lamps lining the walls and the glint of the city seeping in from the large windows. T’Chaka turned with the Queen to face the two princes, there was a warm pride on T’Challa’s father’s features, tempered as it was by the late hour, as he studied the two of them, eyes sweeping swiftly over N’Jadaka and settling more firmly on T’Challa the heir to the throne.

The proud look slipped away for something deeper a bit more drawn out and his father commented, “One day, T’Challa you will rule Wakanda, you must be able to guide the council through whatever situations arise.”

T’Challa nodded wordlessly, bowing his head in acknowledgement even as he glanced at N’Jadaka who was mirroring the motion fingers clenched into fists at his side. Wordlessly the two brothers glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes and rolled their eyes at T’Chaka’s obvious care for the heir to the throne. Even as the humour was tempered by a slight bitterness. It always seemed that T’Chaka’s eyes passed over N’Jadaka too swiftly as if seeing a spectre of the past and unable to bear it he looked away.

There were many moments where he was genuinely warm and open with N’Jadaka, teaching the two young princes the art of fighting with a shield and spear, lessons on the vast history of Wakanda and its tribes. But there were other moments and T’Challa knew his brother suffered for them, and he could do little but try to exemplify the brightness of his brother’s spirit in the eyes of his father.

The King’s eyes roved once more over his son, and the son of his brother before he shared a warm look with the Queen and stated, “Come let us retire for dinner.”

T’Challa and N’Jadaka bowed following the Queen and King as they glided gracefully from the room. Silently N’Jadaka reached out and squeezed T’Challa’s fingers seeking wordless comfort from the older brother. T’Challa squeezed back and shot N’Jadaka a reassuring smile, trying to convey everything his brother was to him in the gesture. N’Jadaka nodded and grinned bumping his shoulder into T’Challa’s as he grumbled about not having to eat Feijoada again. The older prince just laughed and ruffled his brother’s hair shoving back against N’Jadaka’s shoulder with a fond smile.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, reviews, comments are always appreciated. Till next time!  
> Note: I am still looking for a beta with a black background if anyone is interested? You don’t have to be a literary genius, I’m just looking for someone to make sure the context fits and the like. It would be much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, we are finally back with chapter 3. Apologies it took so long but life is always frantic. Most of the chapter I actually wrote in class. Also, I’d like to thank lollapalozzafanatic83 for beta-ing this chapter. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> Black Panther is property of Marvel Studios

X

T’Challa whirled to the left as the spear cut viciously through the air, metal vibrating and whistling as it slashed through with wicked speed and gouged a score into the soft matt below them. The oldest prince swung around and retaliated in the next second, spear sure in his hands as he lunged forward, the long metal-tipped staff reached for N’Jadaka with a powerful thrust; T’Challa was unafraid of seriously injuring N’Jadaka as the familiar dance flowed between the two. The younger brother grinned at the older prince from across the courtyard, eyes flashing with challenge as he ducked underneath the pointed tip and slipped into a roll popping up in T’Challa’s personal space, his shield held close to his chest.

N’Jadaka’s spear arched overhead in a punishing blow in one quick movement, sunlight glinting behind the vibranium and imbuing it with power as it surged with the force of gravity towards the heir to the throne. T’Challa reacted instantly, instincts screaming like a cacophony of eagles perching upon the outskirts of the fields, he slammed his shield up to catch the spear as it skidded against the wood with a screech and a flurry of sparks, the two princes straining against one another, strength against strength.

In the next moment, T’Challa was forced to drop and roll to the ground as N’Jadaka stepped back and thrust his spear towards T’Challa’s head and followed with a swipe of his spear. T’Challa slipped back over the mats dodging the twin attacks and flipped to his feet, spear whirling in his hand and catching the air in powerful whiplash. N’Jadaka opposite the older prince sunk into a low stance spear held in front of him as the shield was tugged closer to his chest to protect his vital organs. T’Challa clenched the shield close to his chest mirroring his younger brother’s actions as they began to circle each other slowly, like prowling predators fighting for dominance.

“You’re going down T’Challa.”

N’Jadaka commented with a bloodthirsty grin, eyes bright like a living phoenix, as his old American accent slipped in a bit with the cocky tone. T’Challa levelled his brother with a disparaging stare, wondering if the younger would ever drop the cocky persona, and overconfidence, before a challenging grin decorated the older prince’s features.

“You sure about that brother? I’ve defeated you how many times now?”

T’Challa responded eyes alight with the challenge his younger brother had so carelessly thrown out. N’Jadaka grinned in response, eyes flickering lightly with something suspicious or angry and levered his spear, the point catching the sunlight like a supernova he jeered back, “Half of those don’t count considering you cheated.”

“I never cheat, that dear brother would be dishonourable.”

T’Challa responded in fake affront hand splayed across his chest in a dramatic manner for a moment before with a wink and a grin the prince sunk once into a half ready state, cautiously watching his younger brother. N’Jadaka rolled his eyes and levelled the older brother with a disbelieving stare even though he was guilty of the same thing, as he casually twirled the spear in his hands through the air.

“Maybe we should have Shuri judge our spars then?”

The younger brother suggested with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and a grin that was all teeth and bright eyes, mischief playing games in the sunlight. It was T’Challa’s turn to level his brother with a disbelieving stare at the suggestion as he asked, “Do you remember what happened the last time we did that.”

“She kicked our asses, declared herself queen, and we got yelled at.”

N’Jadaka responded with a sombre tone, one full of long-suffering even as it lingered with amusement and fond recollection. Shuri, well younger than both of them, could easily defeat them for all of her small stature, speed, and genius. Not that the two older brothers both didn’t delight in locking their younger sister in a teasing headlock.

“Exactly.”

T’Challa intoned with a huff of laughter as he twisted to face the younger prince. The air around the two tensed as if a wire stretched thin, the good humour fading slightly to be filled with the heat of battle as N’Jadaka turned intense battle-ready eyes the older prince’s way and the two sunk into low stances, spears at the ready.

A single tense moment lingered among the small training sale, filling the air like thick amber, preserving the anticipatory nature of the battle before it cracked with a burst of energy. With a crash of spear against spear, the tension was diverted as N’Jadaka lunged across the training sale, always one to make the first move, he had patience in droves, though it was often hard to identify such. T’Challa had always been encouraged from a young age to wait, cautioned in peace and tactics. T’Challa knew there was a balance between the two as he caught the brunt of the spear against his own and felt N’Jadaka’s weight behind the blow. 

Settling into a deeper stance, the two exchanged a flurry of attacks, N’Jadaka swinging out and to the side aiming for the elder’s neck before sweeping down towards T’Challa’s feet, as if to pull them out from underneath him. The heir to the throne caught each attack responding in kind as they swept across the small courtyard, a small cut appearing on T’Challa’s bicep even as he scored a light gash across N’Jadaka’s abdomen. 

T’Challa pushed into the offensive, backing N’Jadaka across the courtyard as they continued to clash in increasing frenzy. Spears whipping out and overhead, clashing with bright sparks before disengaging as they sprung away before driving forward once more.

Sweat beaded T’Challa’s brow and his breath left his lungs in heavy gasps as he ducked under an overhead swing and kicked out his feet landing a kick firmly against N’Jadaka’s shield. The prince took advantage of the moment and winked at N’Jadaka as he kicked off the shield and landed in a crouch spear pointing in front of him at the ready.

N’Jadaka across from T’Challa was panting as well, sweat dripping from the mop of hair he insisted on wearing in that style, but his eyes were still buzzing with energy like two suns were their intensity as the younger teased, “Ready to submit old man?”

T’Challa straightened at the challenge and responded with equal challenge, “Never, but be prepared to yield N’Jadaka.”

The younger scoffed and in the next moment, they were fighting once more, spears clashing against each other with a flurry of sparks and the strain of muscles. Overhead, underneath, to the side, duck out of the way, roll across the mats. It filled into an endless mantra as they continued to pace across the training sale.

Feeling the sun begin to reach its place in the sky, his breath of exertion, and the burn of his muscles T’Challa decided to end the spar. Their attacks increased in intensity as N’Jadaka sensed the same and responded with equal ferocity. With a combination of attacks that flew like liquid silver through the air, T’Challa swept the feet out from beneath his younger brother and let the point of his spear rest in the hollow of N’Jadaka’s throat.

“Submit brother.”

T’Challa commanded with a tired grin, voice rough and breathy with the fight. N’Jadaka shook his head a rebellious look in his eyes and in a quick movement wrapped his legs around his older brother’s hips and dragged T’Challa on top of him, spears and shield were forgotten as the older landed with a huff. 

The two brothers wrestled one and other, rolling over as N’Jadaka, still, younger struggled against T’Challa’s greater strength. Laughter filled the air between them as they toppled each over and over again. After another minute of tussling T’Challa stared somewhat triumphantly down at N’Jadaka, arms pinned above his head as the older brother rested his weight against the younger.

“I swear that stubbornness of yours is going to be the death of you one day N’Jadaka. Yield already.”

T’Challa commented with fondness and a particular expectant stare, N’Jadaka grinned and shrugged, at the comment even knowing the Queen had said the same a thousand times over when they returned from some escapade covered head to toe in dust. With a slight frown belayed only by the younger prince’s happiness at the spar, N’Jadaka replied, “Fine I yield, but I’ll defeat you next time for sure T’Challa.”

“You wish.”

T’Challa shot back the epitome of maturity as he rolled off of his brother and landed on the soft mats beside him with a huff of air. The skies above were an endless blue, as fluffy clouds drifted aimlessly in gentle eddying motions, like the waves of the far-off seas N’Jadaka liked to visit when they had the chance.

“Just wait, soon I’ll be taller than you.”

N’Jadaka replied with easy confidence as the younger boy rolled onto his sides to flash T’Challa a promising grin before he flopped onto his back once more. The older prince made a vague sound of agreement at the statement, silently he also hoped that one day they would be able to fight as equals, losing and winning in turn. T’Challa wanted to have his brother by his side when he ascended the throne, there was no one alive, other than his family, that he trusted more than N’Jadaka.

A peaceful silence descended on the two princes, disturbed only by the slow deep breaths that filled the air rhythmically as idle thoughts followed the trail of the clouds. T’Challa was eighteen and had begun to take more of the duties a crown prince was expected to uphold, the pressure and responsibility weighed on his shoulders as much as his father’s disapproving gaze or proud eyes when T’Challa accomplished a set task. 

It all left thoughts of his own ruling simmering in the back of his mind like a distant dream one wanted to avoid to better enjoy the present. It was inevitable that one day the king, T’Challa’s father, would die and join their ancestors upon the plains of the afterlife, inevitable that one day the young prince would sit upon the throne and guide the country of Wakanda.

“T’Challa when you become king, will you begin to aid our brethren spread throughout the rest of the world? They’re suffering every day, all of them in one way or another: discrimination, racism, the media, it’s endless even with the change from blatant slavery.”

N’Jadaka asked as if on the same wavelength as T’Challa, voice serious and quiet with thoughtfulness, yet still inflamed with passion. The youngest prince had never taken to many of the subjects required of their education, but when it came to that of the outside world, of America and their Warbirds spread throughout the globe, N’Jadaka seemed to come alive, eyes alight with something T’Challa was unsure of, though knowing it swelled with intensity.

Taking a deep breath, T’Challa dragged his attention to the question that still lingered in the air between the two brothers, a swaying rope bridge over an endless chasm beneath their feet. In his heart T’Challa had always harboured the want to help those of their race, in whatever way possible, never completely content with total isolationism of Wakanda. Another part of T’Challa, the one forged of life and experience, knew that to reveal their country was to endanger it, endanger their people, to risk that chance of first world countries the world over seeking to take advantage of Wakanda’s vast resources, least of all vibranium. To follow tradition and to respect the past just as much as the future seemed his father’s deepest wish for the future of Wakanda.

“I want to N’Jadaka, but I don’t know how the people of Wakanda, least of all the elders would react. I want to protect our brethren the world over, but there are also the people of Wakanda. First world countries are greedy and would seek to take advantage of our resources. I would like to perhaps try when I have ruled for more than a year, and the people are accustomed. But wishing and experiencing the future are two different things.”

T’Challa responded solemnly, both attempting to comfort his brother and providing a response filled with logic. N’Jadaka nodded beside T’Challa presence warm where his shoulder pressed against T’Challa’s own the younger prince replied with a tired acceptance, “I thought you would say that T’Challa, responsibility to Wakanda, to your people has always been at the forefront of your ideology.”

“N’Jadaka…”

T’Challa responded unsure trailing off at the words spoken without accusation, just with simple acknowledgement as if a stranger stating facts. T’Challa’s younger brother rolled over to look the heir to the throne in the eyes, far older and mature than his physical age, and continued, “I want to be free, free our peoples in whatever way necessary. I want to see America, my mom, the streets of Oakland…”

N’Jadaka trailed off voice melancholic and longing in the way T’Challa only heard in the early hours of the morning when they sat side by side watching the sunrises. Concerned, T’Challa rolled over and found N’Jadaka studying the sky with an absent expression, gaze distant, so very distant a whole continent away.

“I’ve forgotten a lot… the taste of mom’s cooking, the feel of America… what the sunsets there were like… the shade of my dad’s eyes. The kids on the street…”

N’Jadaka continued aimlessly eyes glassy with unshed tears, silently T’Challa squished closer to his younger brother, entangling his hand with N’Jadaka’s as he supported the youngest the best he was able to. Sometimes T’Challa would sit and stare, get lost in thoughts of the future, of the worries of an heir to the throne, and his younger brother would get lost in thoughts of home, dreams and aspirations. On either occasion, they dragged each other back to the present; they had supported one and other through everything and T’Challa wished he could do more even as he listened to N’Jadaka’s whispered, upset breathing.

After a minute, the younger prince rubbed at his eyes and with a rough huff of laughter commented, “Listen to me getting all nostalgic about America… You know I love you right T’Challa?” the prince in question nodded and mouthed the words back at his brother, even as N’Jadaka’s lips curled into a lopsided smile and he continued, “It’s just I want to go home. Wakanda is my home, but so is America. It’s in my blood as much as Wakanda.

N’Jadaka finished quietly, hand tangling with T’Challa’s own as the words the younger prince had spoken drifted through the air like a spectre through a battlefield. T’Challa absorbed the words with a soft furrow of his brows and a frown, understanding in part the desire to be home, having journeyed with T’Chaka for various diplomatic meetings, but for N’Jadaka it was much deeper. Finding one’s lost roots and planting them in the soil once more to reach for the sun.

“You could ask T’Chaka for permission to visit America,” T’Challa suggested lightly, knowing that the chances of his father giving permission were slim, but not impossible, especially if T’Challa aided in petitioning the King. N’Jadaka squeezed the older brother’s hand and flashed a worn brittle smile, one T’Challa wished his brother had never possessed and nodded murmuring, “it’s worth a try.”

“If he says no, I’ll make sure it happens N’Jadaka. I promise.”

T’Challa assured conviction, strengthening his voice to pure vibranium as he stared into the endless depths of N’Jadaka’s eyes in promise. A smile slipped across N’Jadaka’s features like the first breath of spring as his cousin nodded once in acceptance and the air, swelling unfelt and immovably with the moment dispersed leaving the peaceful morning sun.

With a shake of his head, T’Challa picked his way to his feet and extended a hand to N’Jadaka hauling the younger to his feet he commented, “Come on, we don’t want to be late for the tutors, and Shuri has a new invention she’s excited to show us.”

“Well, we don’t want to disappoint Shuri, onwards brother.”

N’Jadaka responded gaily, usual bright persona slotted firmly into place as he grinned at T’Challa. The heir to the throne grinned in response and the two left the training sale and the early morning words behind them.

X

T’Chaka was seated on the throne in front of T’Challa, expression stern and closed off, all the image of the King overseeing the country, and none of the warmth and kindness that normally saturated his father’s eyes like a great ocean. It was unsettling, but T’Challa held onto his calm with a stubbornness N’Jadaka would be proud of as he studied his father in kind, noting the white beginning to filter into his hair, and the drawn lines around his eyes.

Thinking of N’Jadaka brought T’Challa’s attention to the reason he had asked his father for a private meeting, in all the formal context of a prince convening with the King. Something his father had detected with a raised brow, and lingering curiosity.

“My son, why have you sought this meeting?” T’Chaka asked conceding the silence to T’Challa with a nod and a note of concern beneath the impartialness of a King. The simple question seemed to swallow each measure of the young prince’s courage as he stared into his father’s wise eyes, thoughts of his younger brother grinning and laughing, followed by the sombre look in his eyes as he spoke of his roots.

“I come on behalf of N’Jadaka.”

T’Challa stated simply letting the words unspoken between the two pillars of Wakanda hang on the air. The matter that the heir to the throne had come himself rather than the younger was obviously of a measure of concern to the King as T’Chaka raised a brow at T’Challa, but nodded allowing the youth to continue.

“He desires to return to the country of America, his birthplace, to see his mother and experience the other half of his heritage.”

The statement washed a frown over the King’s features; a sign T’Challa had not been hoping for, weary acceptance maybe, but not the obvious denial to the unsaid request. T’Chaka rested a weary hand over his brow as if preparing himself for the battle to come and with a sigh responded, “That is not possible.”

“Why?” T’Challa responded immediately with a calm incline of his head prompting further explanation, reining the temper that wanted to demand an straightforward answer immediately. The prince wouldn't accept an answer consisting of nothing more than platitudes or ceaseless procrastinations; he needed a clear reason. He believed in the need for N’Jadaka to see the other half of his birthright, even if it would change him in innumerable ways, rip apart the very core of who the youngest prince was. It was the pilgrimage he would take on the path to finding his place in the world.

Some part of T’Challa wanted to hold his younger brother close, never let the bright-eyed boy he had helped raise truly experience the fractals of what he knew of the world. T’Challa was still young, but he had accompanied his father into the far lands surrounding Wakanda, had been to other countries, and glimpsed the outset of humanities’ error that spread like a plague. He was wary and cautious, less so than his father, but still far too aware of what the voyage would expose his brother too.

“You know what happened the night I brought N’Jadaka here T’Challa. I told you plainly upon your twelfth birthday. To allow N’Jadaka to return to that country is to expose him to the racism that runs like a backbone to the earth, and to potentially lend his life to harm’s way.”

T’Chaka spoke stoically, some part of his words pleading with T’Challa to understand the reasoning behind such a decision, even as a general passion filled them. And T’Challa did understand. But to keep N’Jadaka in Wakanda would only promote a bitterness, like a heady drug surging through the younger prince at the preconceived idea of capture and loss of freedom.

“N’Jadaka will return there eventually. Better with the aid and support of Wakanda than without.” T’Challa argued standing straight, drawing on all the lessons of posture, eyes contact, and conviction of voice that had been drilled into his skull at a young age. T’Chaka bowed his head at the words as if conceding some great defeat as his hand idly circled the ring on his hand, a twin to the one his brother had worn that N’Jadaka now wore.

“He is not ready now. He is still young and impressionable. I have taken responsibility for my actions those many years ago in bringing your cousin here and will continue to protect N’Jadaka”

The King responded words sounding like the final judgement of an executioner, judge, and jury as they echoed through the near-empty throne room. T’Challa took in the words with careful calm, focusing on his breath and a proper response as his fingers carved crescents into his hands.

“And to protect him is to keep him caged, stagnating any further growth of character. N’Jadaka has the blood of America running through his veins just as much as our ancestors. It is blood right that he sees that country once more and experience the world further. It will help him grow in character and provide him with methods of preparing for the future.”

T’Challa responded passion seeping into his voice as he desperately fought for his brother and the right for him to live freely. T’Chaka shook his head at the words, as if shaking away unwanted thoughts and responded heavily as if the words both pained him and yet were glad to be ridden of, “The decision is final. N’Jadaka will remain in Wakanda, as his father would have wanted.”

The young prince’s shoulders slumped in defeat as the final tide of war swept over the two pillars of Wakanda, one the past ancient and wise, and the other the future youthful and full of hope. Conceding with a nod T’Challa moved to turn away from the King, unable to lay eyes on his father at the moment as a dejected feeling sunk through his chest like the plunge of icy waters before the cliff face. However, before the heir to the throne could take another step towards the great doors of the throne room they heaved open with a slow groaning heave, holding tension in its claws as light streamed from the hallway.

N’Jadaka stood ensconced in the light, every part of him radiant with a flurry of emotions as the young prince stepped into the room, the sound like the fall of thunder. N’Jadaka paused once by T’Challa’s side to rest a hand on the older brother’s shoulder in reassurance and thanks eyes full of promise and gratitude before the youngest prince was standing before the King.

“N’Jadaka what is it you seek?”

T’Chaka questioned a furrow lining his brow as T’Challa stopped and turned to face the two, gathered across from one another like two opponents on the battlefield, both proud and confident in their views. Some part of the heir to the throne was afraid of what the outcome would be of this confrontation, the other part of T’Challa silently supported his brother with all the passion he had imbued in his arguments.

“While I think T’Challa did a great job arguing my rights to go to America, I think it’s best if I speak to you myself, your Highness.”

N’Jadaka replied voice like a whip even as it contained the proper moue of respect expected for a prince speaking to the King. T’Chaka raised a brow, something like anger flashing there briefly at the perceived rebellious disrespect before it was gone once more, and the King stated, “I have denied your request to go to America, as your guardian I do not believe it is an acceptable path for your future and will lead to complicated circumstances.”

“My future is for me to decide, I am sixteen considered of adulthood by the laws and rules governing Wakanda. You are just afraid I will turn out like my father, that I will see the injustices forced upon our people and will wish to rise up and aid them. That’s why you killed him, isn’t it? Why you look at me sometimes with those eyes as if you already know my future. I want to be free, want to experience both halves of my heritage, I may have grown in Wakanda but just the same I belong to the people of America.”

N’Jadaka finished with his hands clenched into fists at his side, eyes glowing with the power of his emotions as across from the young prince, the King was frozen features a mask of cold stone. The King responded shortly unheeding of N’Jadaka’s words and the calm but passionate manner in which he had delivered his argument backed by a steel of passion, “Your father died because he pulled a weapon on a comrade. Your future is in Wakanda and you shall remain here.”

“You killed him, your own brother. Did you even feel anything? I talked to Zuri and I understand; he was going to kill him. But you’ve never once visited his grave, nor spent the time speaking to me of him, what his favourite colour was, his dreams and aspirations, what he really wanted for me. You placed him in that country then left him alone, without support he turned to my mother, and then I appeared because he loved her. He didn’t want to betray Wakanda, but for my future, for the future of our brothers scattered throughout the world, he believed in the need to take power. You killed him and arrived just in time for his final words. Then you brought me here as if a bargaining chip, you could have left me, but your heart decided that would be too cruel, and for what? Ever since I’ve arrived I’ve been a spectator in the palace, always receiving less attention for the same accomplishments as T’Challa or even Shuri. Some days you can’t even look at me! Ramonda welcomed me into her home with no hesitation, same as Shuri and T’Challa, but you never overcame the death of my father. You became my guardian but not my father.”

Tears were silently streaming down N’Jadaka’s cheeks as he finished, hands shaking and white-knuckled at his side even as he continued to control his breathing staring up at T’Chaka with eyes pleading for understanding, for acceptance, apology and a thousand other things. Pride surged in T’Challa’s chest at the man his younger brother was becoming, at the bravery N’Jadaka had shown in facing their father, who had been always been an imposing figure, and striving for his own desires.

T’Chaka stared at N’Jadaka with lost eyes, looking almost close to tears as much as he looked close to an apathetic, seeping anger at the impudent accusations. Some words T'Challa knew held no truth and were born out of a desire for T'Chaka to listen to N'Jadaka. The King had visited the grave of his brother many times; T'Challa had seen it in the early hours of the morning before the sun had bathed Wakanda in the light. But N’Jadaka also brought truth to the argument, T'Chaka had struggled with N’Jadaka, with showing emotion and care since the first day the youngest prince had appeared, looking unbelievably lost.

“Wakanda needs to be protected, our future is not with the outside world but here. N’Jadaka you are a Prince of Wakanda I have loved you, perhaps not as my own but I have tried, and I care for you. Your father was a good man, but in America, things changed.”

T’Chaka spoke slowly, every word falling with an immense weight as if dragging heavy stones over a mountain. Exhaustion was drawn over the King’s features like a mourning veil, and N’Jadaka across from the King stopped eyes wide, emotions clashing like two opposite elements meeting, like an avalanche of ice and a cascade of fire.

With a weary sigh of defeat, like an ancient god surveying his creation after the final days the King commanded, “You will not go to America N’Jadaka. This decision is final.”

N’Jadaka’s shoulders slumped in defeat the emotion echoing throughout every inch of T’Challa’s younger brother, he bowed, something strict cold and holding a faint imitation of respect he turned and walked away. The young prince’s footsteps were like that of falling stars colliding with the earth with great force and warning as he walked past T’Challa, features shuttered in defeat, and finally out of the ornate throne room.

T’Challa glanced once to his father and bowed, noting the bowed head like a broken man and weary eyes as his father nodded in response. Turning T’Challa resolved to help his brother, even while attempting to support his father, as the lights of the hallways surrounded T'Challa like the sun’s rays.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was really interesting to try and attempt the characterization of N’Jadaka and T’Chaka based on the Alternate Universe. I hope everything came across clearly in any case. I don’t know when I will be able to update again, but this fic is far from dead and I will give it my best efforts. Thank you all for reading, reviews/comments are always appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back! I didn’t really know if this fic was going to be updated again, it’s one of those fics you think about and suffer about. But I was sort of inspired recently so, here we are. I think my writing style might have changed a bit since last I worked on this fic, but hopefully, it’s not too noticeable. I don’t know how regular updates will be, but I’ll try to finish this story. Also, apologies to any American readers I pretty much bash your country a bit in this chapter. It’s kind of the truth though. Thanks to everyone who commented, y’all were inspiring! Read on and enjoy.
> 
> Black Panther is the property of Marvel

X

The halls of his home were dark in the evening, lit only by the amber glow of the lights attached to the walls in small sconces, they looked like fireflies and T’Challa vaguely recalled a memory of naming them with his mother. He shook away the memory and with it the tense lines of his shoulders. Or rather he tried to. Everything felt tight in his chest and behind his eyes, part of him wanted to turn around, to go back into the throne room, to stare into his father’s weathered eyes and demand… something, anything.

But most of him knew where N’Jadaka was and already on an instinctive level he understood how everything had changed. It was the stone from the top of a mountain bringing forth an avalanche and T’Challa could feel his world crumble with it, burying everything under a layer of stone that no one could see through. 

He paused for a moment, a window gazed out upon the city, a beacon of shining lights and curves caught in the glow of everything. Outside the window life occurred as usual, the citizens of Wakanda remained unaware of the internal conflict among the royal family. It inspired a split-second desire to be there, among the people, without the responsibility of the country hanging over his head, over his every choice.

The door to N’Jadaka’s room slid open with a quiet hiss that felt too loud in the hovering silence. N’Jadaka’s room was a far different cry from the impersonal guest room of his first days in Wakanda, sprawling sunsets painted the walls, shelves lined themselves with weapons and knick-knacks Shuri thrust on him (or he had stolen), and a few posters of American bands were sloppily thrown over the walls.

N’Jadaka hovered over his bed, there was a duffle bag set out in front of him and he was still and silent, just the line of his spine haloed in the glow of the fairy lights over his bed bathing his figure in light. He turned a sharp motion that flashed with the silver of a knife before his gaze locked onto T’Challa and he slumped.

T’Challa entered the room and the door slid behind him with another hiss. They both knew what was happening. T’Challa couldn’t protest, even though part of him desperately wanted to beg N’Jadaka to stay. Even for a day. But he couldn’t, N’Jadaka couldn’t. T’Chaka would increase border security, he would have someone watching N’Jadaka (more so than they were already guarded), he would never allow N’Jadaka to escape. And it would all be done by the next morning.

Tonight, was their only chance.

T’Chaka knew the same, but T’Challa prayed that the already late hour and the grace of his mother would allow for a window of opportunity. T’Challa peered into the duffle bag and wordlessly fished out a wad of American bills his father had allowed him to keep after seeing his fascination with the figures on it (Canadian money was far cooler). N’Jadaka’s hand grasped his own, the warmth of his skin like a hearth as he looked at him from between his dreads and nodded.

“What are you going to do? In America.”

T’Challa questioned as he shook his head and carefully refolded his brother’s favourite pair of pants. N’Jadaka swatted at his arm and muttered unsavoury things about him under his breath before drifting into silence.

“Don’t know, go to college, check out the tourist stuff, learn the history; the unedited version, try some cuisine.”

N’Jadaka replied with a shrug and his tone was idle but there was more to his voice, something longing, a real true sort of longing that was deeper than the heart. T’Challa supposed it ran through his very veins.

He knew that what N’Jadaka would find in America would likely horrify him when compared to Wakandan society. Even compared to the other global superpowers there was something to America beneath the veneer of popularity that ran rotten. But it was N’Jadaka’s choice, it was something he needed to see, to understand for himself.

“Alright, promise you’ll write to me, or whatever it is people use these days, is it Twitter?”

T’Challa replied with a huff of laughter he didn’t feel as he glanced superstitiously over his shoulder and watched N’Jadaka zip his bag shut and pat its side. N’Jadaka slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded his eyes were twin pools of dark water as he quirked his lips and replied, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll write you, even use that fancy cursive shit.”

“Please don’t. Your cursive is horrible and an affront to writing everywhere.”

T’Challa replied bumping his shoulder against N’Jadaka’s with a grin as they made their way towards the door. He didn’t comment on N’Jadaka’s accent slipping in and the way he practically thrummed with energy.

On the threshold of the door, N’Jadaka paused and stared at his room, his gaze swept over everything, all of it coloured sepia in the yellow glow of the fairy lights at the back. He tipped his head and stepped back, the doors hissing open and allowing N’Jadaka to enter the hallway. T’Challa followed behind him in the sudden and oppressive silence hanging over them.

They moved quietly through the hallways in practised movements, experience from years of sneaking out of one place of another aiding the two princes. T’Challa paused and pulled N’Jadaka into a small alcove as a guard passed through the hallway, her keen eyes scouring the walls. Her eyes passed over their location and T’Challa held his breath, felt N’Jadaka’s heartbeat pounding like a drum behind him.

The guard moved on.

They slid into one of the service elevators located beside a storage closet and a guest room for irritating diplomats. It was often used at night and the surveillance on it was surprisingly lax considering the security of the palace. They had never seen fit to mention it as it aided in many of their pranks or less permittable quests. T’Challa didn’t feel guilty, there was a camera in the hallway that caught anyone leaving or entering; that is if they didn’t know its blind spot.

The ride was quiet, there was no awkward elevator music, and they stood close together, shoulder to shoulder with the weight of what was to come a tidal force. Pulling them away and yet pushing them forward.

The hanger was mostly dark, a big hulking space filled with their aircraft and the occasional dismantled jet, the emergency lights were red and cast everything in harsh shadows, it was like something out of a movie. Trading a nervous smile that didn’t hide how the hanger at night, abandoned, gave off chilling vibes, they stepped forward.

Then the lights flicked on with an echoing click.

They both tensed, N’Jadaka’s hand reaching towards a knife, and T’Challa’s fingers itched towards the bracelet Shuri had given him. Standing by one of the stealth craft, probably the one they would have chosen, stood Shuri. Her arms were crossed, and her chin jutted out defiantly as she called out, “Were you even going to say goodbye to me N’Jadaka?”

N’Jadaka coughed and bowed his head in shame before he weakly replied, “It’s time sensitive Shuri. I would have like video-called you or something.”

She huffed and stared at the two of them with narrowed eyes for a long moment, it was hard to recall she was only eight before she uncrossed her arms and beckoned the two of them closer with a fond but exasperated, “You’re lucky I love you, idiots. I’ve already wiped the camera feeds so, you owe me.”

N’Jadaka grinned and took one long step forward and swept Shuri into a hug, twirling her around with ease. Shuri laughed and giggled (though she would protest such) and swatted at N’Jadaka until he placed her on the ground once more.

“Alright we get it, spring bird happy to return home.”

She said with a flap of her hand before she pulled out her tablet and N’Jadaka and T’Challa crowded closer to peer over her shoulder at the screen. She scowled and aimed a flick at T’Challa who merely leaned back and raised a brow.

“What do you got for me, sis?”

N’Jadaka questioned adjusting the strap of the duffle bag on his shoulder. Shuri shook her head, the bright colour in her hair that their mom hated, catching on the pale light of the skylights above.

“I’ve plotted your course, you choose the state and the plane will land you there. There’re a few brochures for colleges in there and some open rent locations if you go where I think you’re going to go. Also, Candy Crush, snacks, and the whole of the Star Wars trilogy.”

“Sis, did I ever tell you how much I loved you? Cause you’re like the best sibling.”

N’Jadaka replied with a grin and Shuri grinned at T’Challa’s muffled protest, practically preening at the title. Rolling his eyes T’Challa crossed his arms and stepped back allowing the two to say goodbye. N’Jadaka wrapped his arms around Shuri and squished her to his chest whispering words that were easily audible in the broad expanse of the hanger. T’Challa felt no shame in eavesdropping as he advised Shuri on how best to annoy him and keep him on his toes. Ah, siblings.

After a few minutes, and Shuri protesting about her ability to breathe or lack thereof, N’Jadaka pulled away and allowed Shuri to finish the last-minute programming. He turned to face T’Challa and for a moment there was silence as T’Challa drank in the sight of his brother, his dreads hanging over his forehead and over his ears, the determined slant of his nose, the sure grin, his eyes that were happy, really and truly happy, the kind you can’t describe nor contain.

By all that Bast had created T’Challa was going to miss his brother, like missing a physical piece of oneself. It would be like walking on one leg without a crutch to catch himself. T’Challa knew it would hurt, that he would miss N’Jadaka’s laughter, his pranks, his jokes, that mischief, the love of American bands that he blasted so loud it was audible two floors down, the reckless abandon he fought with.

It wasn’t goodbye forever.

T’Challa reminded himself of that as he stepped forward and opened his arms, N’Jadaka slammed into him, forcing the breath out of his lungs. He laughed at the koala limbs of his brother and tightened his own grasp around N’Jadaka in return. He held N’Jadaka tighter when he buried his head in his neck and he could feel the damp tears on his shoulder, and on his own cheeks.

“Thank you T’Challa, you made Wakanda home. Without you, I wouldn’t be who I was.”

His arms tightened around N’Jadaka at the confession and he responded quietly, “You also shaped my life N’Jadaka.”

N’Jadaka pulled back a moment later, wiping at the tears trailing down his cheeks he grinned, all cocky and sure, and replied, “Guess it’s Erik now, considering I’m American and all.”

T’Challa rolled his eyes but grinned nonetheless and replied, “Alright Erik, safe travels.”

“We all good Shuri?”

N’Jadaka questioned as he nodded once, staring into T’Challa’s eyes with a promise. He hoisted his duffel bag over his shoulder and stepped onto the ramp, staring at his siblings as the door behind him heaved open.

“All good to go. Don’t worry about the forcefield you’ll be fine. Probably.”

“Shuri!”

T’Challa chided at the teasing tone that probably wasn’t appropriate for the touching goodbye happening. N’Jadaka’s laughter filled the hanger and they both turned to look at him, standing on the ramp above them grinning at the two of them he said, “Man I’ll miss you two. Stay out of trouble kay?”

T’Challa raised one dubious brow as if to suggest that he would never involve himself in something so low as trouble. Shuri nodded the picture of innocence all wide eyes and hopeful tilt; it wasn’t quite convincing. N’Jadaka waved and turned to enter the plane, the door sliding shut behind him a moment later as the lights flickered on casting everything in pale blue.

The hanger door opened and for a moment everything hovered on a precipice. Then the aircraft lifted into the air and exited through the hanger doors leaving the two of them alone in the pale glow of the lights above.

“He totally forgot to pack his socks, didn’t he?”

Shuri questioned with a sniffle, T’Challa glanced at his sister and knew her expression mirrored his own. He tucked her into his side, running his hand lightly over her shoulder as the hanger doors began to slide close on the night sky above Wakanda he replied, “Without a doubt.”

She laughed, the sound clear as she grabbed her tablet and he steered her away from the place their brother had once stood. With a sniffle, she questioned, “We’re going to be in so much trouble tomorrow aren’t we.”

“Without a doubt. But that’s okay, it’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Shuri shook her head, the bright pink of her hair blooming like flowers as she grinned up at him with watery eyes. T’Challa ruffled her hair and grinned down at his sister. It would be different without N’Jadaka there, but he was free. And in the end, that was what mattered most.

X

Everything was different after N’Jadaka left.

Their father was furious when he found out what had occurred in the morning. It was an anger that was terrible and all-consuming, T’Challa had seen it before in N’Jadaka, and yet in his father, it was truly terrifying. There was no evidence of their involvement, Shuri was far too advanced with technology for that, and yet it was obvious to anyone present that they had aided N’Jadaka in his escape; it was sad that was what it had become.

They stood together in front of their father in the middle of the council room, listened to him rant about the ungratefulness of children, of rebellion and respect, until his breath was hoarse, and the fury had subsided somewhat. He questioned them, it was extremely similar to the interrogation T’Challa had been asked to witness a year ago when they had captured a suspected terrorist.

They denied and confirmed nothing. Shuri’s hand was threaded through his hand the whole time but they remained still in the face of their father’s anger, their mother stood quietly behind their father, her expression was sad. It lasted for three hours and T’Challa felt light-headed and sick by the end of it, the sort of sickness that was a heaviness in your mind, a dryness to the throat, and sore eyes.

They were punished with multiple sessions of lessons on tradition, respect, and anything their father could think to assign to them, along with training practice early in the morning, the ban of technology, and they were grounded.

After everything, T’Challa held Shuri in his arms as she sobbed and felt resentment burrow itself deep into his stomach, it was an uneasy feeling, like stepping out into the cold of a river bottomed with clay in your bare feet. For the moment, T’Challa let it fester and wondered if that was how his brother had felt.

He understood their father’s anger. T’Chaka had been trying to keep his family safe, to keep N’Jadaka safe, to keep Wakanda safe. But in the end, that desire to keep his country safe over the health of his nephew would have stifled N’Jadaka. It didn’t matter what your good intentions were sometimes, not if they were hurting others, especially if they were hurting those close to you.

It sounded hypocritical considering how much N’Jadaka leaving hurt them. But it was a hurt T’Challa and Shuri could both accept. If it would make their brother happy then it was okay.

Ramonda entered T’Challa’s room after, she stroked her hands through Shuri’s bright hair and pressed a kiss to T’Challa’s forehead and said, “I am proud of you, both of you. It takes courage to stand against one’s family. And you two did it for the right reason. I may not agree with letting N’Jadaka go now, but I’m proud of all of you, nonetheless. And while your father is angry now, he just wants what is best for this family and for Wakanda and sometimes he is blinded by that. But he may come to understand why you both did it later. For now, don’t get on his bad side.”

The words warmed something in T’Challa’s chest and flushed away the anger, sowed it into experience that he would recall when making decisions in the future that affected others. Shuri sniffled but nodded and let their mother tell them a story of their history like she hadn’t since they were young, all gathered up on the bed staring at her with wide eyes and asking ceaseless questions.

They dealt with their punishments. The weeks passed by in a dull haze, like moving through fog, T’Challa passed from class to class to lesson to spar. It made the ache of N’Jadaka’s absence that much starker. There was no one to turn to and write pointed notes about the redundancy of their laws and government. No one to make silly faces when the teacher’s back was turned. He sparred against the guards and missed the feel of N’Jadaka against his back and the wind in their hair.

Inside he felt trapped, like a lion pacing its cage in the zoos they had heard about in America. It cycled onwards and T’Challa would stare out the window and wonder how his brother was faring in America. Part of him feared for N’Jadaka, feared of the violence in America and his brother’s cockiness. The rest of him just hoped N’Jadaka was remembering to eat and that he had found a college course that wouldn’t bore him.

Shuri received a call from him a week later, when they were both perched on a balcony under the watchful eyes of Okoye, one of the guards in training who let them get away with stuff because they bribed her with chocolate. Shuri was scrolling through her tablet with a feverish fervency that did little to diminish the idea that she was at least a little addicted to technology. It was okay though (mostly), she made all sorts of cool stuff because of it.

They both stared at the screen for a long moment as a bubbly call tone rang out before Shuri tapped it with numb fingers that couldn’t hide the excitement dashing across her features like the morning of one’s birthday. N’Jadaka appeared a moment later, the quality was grainy (something Shuri would surely fix in the future) but he looked well if a little bit like a veteran returned from war.

They talked for hours, of America and how it was different and yet similar, how N’Jadaka could feel the racism like a flag across his back, about the greasy food, the cultural differences, the college courses (he was taking classes on political science and modern history), and how much he missed Wakanda but liked the sunsets in America even if they couldn’t compare.

In turn they talked of their punishments, earning laughter and not at all pitying looks, of the newest fashion trends that had emerged out of recycled household objects, about the diplomatic visit from the merchant tribe that was really an attempt to betroth one of their daughters to T’Challa, and of everything else and in between.

It was so easily similar to how everything had been before N’Jadaka had left and it hurt, ached somewhere behind his heart and in his fingers, they itched as if for a blade, but he stilled them, and they talked. N’Jadaka was happy and there was little more T’Challa could ask for other than perhaps less training.

Okoye was the one to tell them that it was dinner time and with mournful farewells that took probably far too long they said goodbye. And then it was just Shuri and T’Challa. The conversation lingered on T’Challa’s mind for the rest of the evening and the days that followed, it was something to fill the dull silence of lessons on the different agricultural regions of Wakanda.

Their grounding was lifted eventually, and things didn’t exactly return to normal (he doubted they ever would) everything was a bit stiff, conversations faded quickly, and sensitive topics were avoided. But they tried and through the magic of family dinners and Disney movies things were okay, not necessarily good, but okay.

Then T’Challa met Nakia.

He admitted he had a crush to N’Jadaka who teased him endlessly only to receive the same when he revealed he was interested in someone. It was different from how everything had been before, but N’Jadaka was happy, it was a tangible thing that while wearied by his experiences in America couldn’t drown his utter happiness at being in the country of his birth. They talked, they joked, and they were brothers even if they were separated by a few hundred thousand miles.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter it kind of came out of nowhere but it was fun to write. There will be a pretty big time skip between this chapter and the next. It will probably pick up right around Civil War. And no, this fic will not be covering Infinity War, as cool as it would be to see N’Jadaka fight Thanos I really don’t want to touch Infinity War. Also, I know the ages are probably not correct, but we can just ignore that. Reviews/comments are always appreciated, till next time!
> 
> A penny for your thoughts: Imagine Erik watching This is America. That is all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, we are back! This chapter picks up right around Civil War, which I haven’t watched in forever so please just ignore any inconsistencies. There will probably be about three more chapters in this fic. Read on and enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> Black Panther belongs to Marvel

X

America was different from Wakanda, it was something he couldn’t quite quantify, beyond the obvious infrastructure and people. There was something in the air that wasn’t like Wakanda, it was hostile and heavy; oppressive. T’Challa’s eyes observed everything as he stood quietly beside his father, it was the first time he had been in America since N’Jadaka left almost ten years ago. Everything was strange about the country, different.

He supposed that was to be expected, but T’Challa had visited other developed nations and there wasn’t this sense of paranoia, this all-consuming fear. It was everywhere, in the media, in their politicians, in the people itself.

Something in T’Challa’s chest was thankful they weren’t staying long, that it was only a brief stopover, before they travelled to Sokovia, for his father (and in consequence) T’Challa were only there to speak with the President of the United States about recent trade negotiations. The rest of T’Challa wanted to stay longer, to see N’Jadaka.

It had been years since they had seen each other in person. T’Challa had watched his younger brother grow up through the screen of a monitor, watched his eyes darken, and his hair grow, listened to the wisdom he had gained. It helped but it didn’t stop the soft edges of his memory and the ache in his chest.

They parted in the hallway of the hotel and it was like his feet were on one of the strange conveyor belts, moving forward of their own accord as he entered his room and placed his luggage near the bed. For a moment, T’Challa stood there uncertain. Eventually, he unpacked and changed into the suit he had chosen to wear for their dinner with the president. It was supposed to be an honour, but T’Challa knew it was yet another posing affair, like a group of peacocks clucking about.

A few minutes or maybe an hour later, T’Challa shifted in the large chair he was curled in, it afforded a pretty view of New York’s cityscape and T’Challa almost imagined he could see the wreck of the alien invasion from a few years ago. An invasion where they had done nothing and N’Jadaka could have died. He hadn’t been in New York at the time, on a road trip with his friends to visit the southern states and the museums there; all about the Civil War.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and the stubble there before his fingers trailed to rest over his chest, where the necklace Shuri had thrust on him resided. It was still a prototype but hopefully, it would protect him. His gaze strayed to his hand and he flexed it in the low light of the hotel room, looking at his skin and imagining the claws of the Black Panther.

Sokovia.

It settled uneasily in his chest, the whole matter left a bitter taste in his mouth. The accords sounded pleasant on first glance, a way to restrict the destruction of super-powered battles. But, having a governing body dictate when they could fight, who they could save, it rattled uneasily. A power like that could be corrupted easily. And maybe it was a matter of freedom.

But eleven Wakandans had died, elven of his people who would never return home, whose families were grieving for them. It burned in his chest, this damage caused by vigilantes and part of the accords felt like retribution, like compensation.

And yet if Wakanda was known to the world, and with it the Black Panther, T’Challa would be forced to sign the documents. He would be handing over his ability to protect his people into the hands of dithering politicians. And that’s what they were.

Maybe N’Jadaka was rubbing off on him.

T’Challa had listened often enough to his rants about how one system of government or another was corrupt, absolutely utterly corrupt. Of course. How the people had the power to change things but never did, how the American people sat in their own compliance, a lobster boiling in water. In the next minute, he would talk about how their history was so interesting, the way they influenced the rest of the world, their wars, their movies, their technology.

By Bast above he missed his brother.

Sighing, T’Challa rose to his feet and rested his forehead against the cool glass. It was hard when your only mode of communication was through a screen, sometimes at random or inopportune moments. There was something impersonal about it, and T’Challa felt like he couldn’t share things, that they needed to be said in person. And so, they sat inside his mind and he knew it was the same for N’Jadaka, and for Shuri. There was a disconnect.

They tried, honestly and truly. But even that wasn’t enough to erase time and distance, sometimes they felt like passing strangers, and other times they were still as close as before if not more so brought by maturity.

It was similar to how in their home N’Jadaka wasn’t spoken of like he had been erased from existence, as if he had never come to Wakanda. And it was only the hushed moments between T’Challa and Shuri that made him feel real like he wasn’t some imaginary friend.

Loud music blasted suddenly and irreverently. T’Challa startled and scrambled through the pockets of his pants and pulled out his phone the screen shaking at him with a familiar name. Shaking his head with a grin he reminded himself to change the ring tone Shuri had set and answered the call.

“Yo bro, bad time?”

T’Challa settled in the chair once more, it was surprisingly comfy, and shook his head as he replied, “No, I’m just waiting in our hotel for the dinner to begin.”

“Fancy dinner with the president, look at you go T’Challa, living the life huh?”

N’Jadaka teased with a huff and in the background, T’Challa could hear the passing traffic of the street. Rolling his eyes T’Challa replied, “Hardly.”

“Right, right, boring stuffy dinners and all that. Glad I skipped on that. Oh, you know what I learned today?”

“What?”

T’Challa replied with a huff of laughter at his brother’s nonchalance and the way his accent dipped and very nearly disappeared every other word. He could almost imagine N’Jadaka’s grin, the way his eyes would light up and his brows would curl in that way that never ceased to force a smile onto his own features.

“So, like get this. Thomas Jefferson the dude that said ‘all men are born equal’ or whatever right? He had like the most slaves, even married one. And after he died, you’d think he’d let her, and her children go free. But nah, decided to keep them in his family as slaves. Interesting huh? Not as interesting though as the fact that the US dismantled a democracy to get the oil they wanted. Man, this country.”

N’Jadaka finished with a huff that failed to hide that underneath the faux casualness there was something bitter. N’Jadaka had always liked history, even more so their military history, he had wanted to know everything about Wakanda. It only made sense that once he had finished his degree in political science, he had gone on to study American history.

“Just come from a lecture?”

T’Challa questioned wryly as he adjusted the phone against his ear and glanced casually about the room which was almost certainly bugged. There was silence for a moment as the noise of the street overwhelmed the call before N’Jadaka replied, “Yeah, now I’m off to get me some Starbucks.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t that good? Also don’t you have a class you need to teach soon?”

“Nah man, that’s blasphemy. Anyways, you’re here in America you can try a pumpkin spice latte and go see heaven yourself. And yeah I have a class but they’re all adults they understand if a man needs some coffee.”

N’Jadaka replied and T’Challa could almost see him running a hand through his dreads with a shrug as he held some fancy drink that cost too much (his words) in his hands. Privately, T’Challa was proud of N’Jadaka’s choice to teach adult ESL classes, even if he complained about (was very happy) about being called professor. Shuri was still upset he hadn’t gone into politics yet. They were both patiently waiting for the day he verbally flayed a room full of old white men.

“Yeah, yeah it’s your job.”

“Exactly. Hey, how long are you in the good ol’ U.S of A for anyway?”

N’Jadaka questioned and T’Challa could hear the hope in his voice. It echoed somewhere in his chest all consuming and part of T’Challa wanted to leave the hotel, bolt down the elevator and to the nearest Starbucks and wrap his brother in a hug. He couldn’t. He had a duty to his country.

“Tonight’s the last night, we leave for Sokovia tomorrow. For the accords.”

“Aw man, that sucks. Don’t suppose you’ll let me break into your hotel room for a little sleepover. At least you’ll get to meet the Avengers.”

N’Jadaka replied and he could hear the sadness, the resignation in his voice even beneath the faux joviality. T’Challa sighed, quietly, and glanced out at the city below him for a minute before he replied, “No I don’t think that would go over well. I suppose that counts towards something.”

“Don’t be so down about. Honestly, it won’t be that bad.”

“Just boring.”

T’Challa replied with a hint of a grin because they both remembered countless council meetings standing by his father’s side and listening to debates over the agriculture. N’Jadaka chuckled and the sound settled something in T’Challa’s chest. The door opened behind him.

“Yeah, Shuri I’m taking tons of pictures, no I’m not going to try a hot dog from a street vendor.”

T’Challa replied in what was typical code for T’Chaka appearing suddenly. N’Jadaka sighed on the other end of the line and T’Challa didn’t let the same expression pass over his own features as his brother replied, “I’ll talk to you soon T’Challa, try not to die of boredom alright?”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”

T’Challa ended the call and tried to suppress the heaviness in his chest as he turned to face his father. T’Chaka was old, it was hard to notice when someone aged with you, but there were more greys than black in his hair, and the lines around his eyes were deep. It felt sudden.

“Ready my son?”

He questioned and T’Challa nodded and rose to his feet, straightening the collar of his outfit he stepped forward. T’Chaka rested a hand on his arm, one reaching up to cradle his jaw for a moment, T’Challa stared into his father’s eyes and saw an age of wisdom there. T’Chaka would one day abdicate the throne and T’Challa would be King, would rule over all of Wakanda. He wasn’t certain if he was ready.

“I’m proud of you my son.”

T’Chaka stated and patted his cheek with a crooked little grin that was familiar for all of its rarity. Grinning, T’Challa bowed with his hand clasped over his breast, T’Chaka stepped back and together they exited the room. Everything would be okay.

X

T’Chaka was dead, his father was dead, his father who was alive the night before, who smiled at him and was proud of him, was dead. Dead. The word rang on and echoed in his mind like a bell, like a missile, like something all-consuming and destroying. Everything was a blur and all T’Challa could think amidst his grief was that his father should still be alive, should have grey hair and be able to greet his grandchildren, and tell them stories. T’Challa was supposed to be King soon, but never this soon.

What was he supposed to tell his sister? His mother? His people? It burned inside T’Challa like the bonfires they set in the early fall that reached up towards the sky ever grasping and consuming. It burrowed and it burned and T’Challa knew that his father needed to be avenged, that he couldn’t let the man who had killed his father, his father who should be alive, who wanted peace, live free.

Donning the mantle of the Black Panther was different than any of his previous missions, border control and the rescue of captured citizens, there was an urgency to it that thrummed through his bones, his blood, till the world was washed in sheets of grey.

After everything was over, and the anger cleared away like the first spring thaw, T’Challa sat in an empty hotel room, alone. It was clearer, the true villain behind everything, but that failed to erase the fact that T’Challa was King. King a leader who guided their people, who represented the country, the future and the past. There was a case of luggage on the bed that wasn't his, that belonged to a father who would not wear it again, who wouldn’t laugh with him, or praise Shuri for her genius, who wouldn't share secretive smiles with his mother. There was a man that was gone. And T’Challa was alone.

His father wasn’t perfect, T’Challa knew it. And yet. His father was a good man and he desperately wished that there had been more time, that his father would have been able to speak to him, to hand the throne to him with a smile. He already missed his smile, his laugh, the fussy way he pulled at his clothes, the way he cracked his knuckles randomly, his hugs, the sayings he always spouted. Everything.

There were things he needs to do, unanswered messages on his phone, funeral arrangements he needed to oversee, his coronation, he needed to, he needed to… T’Challa shuddered and his breath was harsh, and he couldn’t quite grasp it as it fled from his lungs and his eyes burned. He wiped away the tears, he couldn’t grieve, not yet, he needed to return to Wakanda, to his family, to his country. All who were grieving. He couldn’t, he didn’t have the time.

He pulled out his phone, Okoye promised to book their flight home and he trusted her with his life, but there were still things he needed to do, to finish, to start. He needed to call his mom and Shuri, he vaguely recalled calling them after everything, before the news broke, but it was like playing broken telephone and the words fade in and out of his mind. He should update them, he should tell them about the real killer, he should tell them he was coming home. With his father’s body.

The screen was blurry through his tears and too bright in the dim light of hotel room cast into stark relief by the city outside his window and T’Challa could feel the soreness of his body like a background throb to the beating of his heart, and everything was so heavy.

With a press of his thumb, the phone unlocked and T’Challa was forced to stare at a photo of his family, they were all gathered around the dinner table celebrating one thing or another, they were smiling, laughing and carefree. It hurt. So much.

It was like a dam that cannot stand the pressure and tears began to pour down his cheeks and his breath hiccupped in his chest and he couldn’t stop the sobs that escaped his mouth, couldn’t hide it anymore. He had to accept it. His father was dead, and he would never hear his voice or see his smile again. Ever.

He tugged his knees to his chest on the impersonal bed, in the impersonal room and wanted to be home with his family. Everything was dark and cold and T’Challa felt like he was five again and scared of the dark. Except his father wasn't there to chase away the monsters anymore. And he could feel the responsibility settling onto his shoulders like, like the world itself and all its expectations. He wasn't ready. He didn’t know what to do. He’d failed his father. He couldn’t save his life. How could he be King?

The door opened but T’Challa didn’t hear it, didn't acknowledge it, he couldn’t. The footsteps were loud, and those he couldn't ignore because he was scared of being alone, but he couldn’t appear weak, he needed to be strong, unbreakable. He looked up and in the darkness of the room he wasn’t certain if what was in front of him was real, like an apparition or a ghost called to him by his grief.

Then N’Jadaka took a step forward and he was in front of T’Challa and he was real, he was heat and the smell of sweat and sandalwood (because he always liked looking good and pampering himself) and his arms wrapped around T’Challa and they were heavy, and they were real. T’Challa buried his face in N’Jadaka’s neck and sobbed, the tears fell, and his eyes burned and N’Jadaka a shushed him gently and rubbed slow circles into his spine and T’Challa grieved.

That was all there was for a while. The dark, his tears, and N’Jadaka. His heartbeat was strong in T’Challa’s ears, echoed his own heart and he focused on it like a lifeline, let it drown everything else out until there was just the sound of a heart beating and T’Challa could start to catch his breath. N’Jadaka didn’t pull away, his arms were warm and heavy around T’Challa’s shoulders and they grounded him, guided him back to the moment.

His grief was still there, a raw wound that bled sluggishly through his chest. But it was not so deep anymore and T’Challa knew that in time it would heal, it would remain a scar, but it would heal. He focused on his breathing, emptied his mind and counted time to the beat of N’Jadaka’s heart till the world around him wasn't shaking and swaying, only then did he lift his head.

N’Jadaka tilted his head and T’Challa could see his eyes in the darkness and they were like pools of water at night, boundless and depthless, he was taller then T’Challa and it was small but noticeable as he crooked a ragged smile that highlighted the exhaustion on his features as he said, “Hey, brother.”

“Hey.”

T’Challa replied with a crooked smile as he wiped away the tears on his face, N’Jadaka’s arms tightened around T’Challa and he shifted and looped his own arms around his brother pulling him tight against his chest he whispered, “How are you here?”

“Took a flight over the moment the story broke. I’m sorry T’Challa, I may not have liked the old man much, but he still raised me.”

N’Jadaka replied his words muffled into the creased fabric of T’Challa’s shirt, he nodded and threaded his fingers through the material of N’Jadaka’s t-shirt, he couldn’t believe he was really there, that he had flown over to see T’Challa. That this was the situation that had forced them to meet once again in almost ten years threaded itself through his mind. He leaned back and stared at N’Jadaka bringing his fingers up to trace the line of his jaw, the dreads hanging over his forehead, the slant of his nose, re-familiarizing himself with his brother.

“You got old.”

N’Jadaka said as he trailed his fingers along his jaw and the beard there his eyes crinkled, and his words were soft as he bit his lip. T’Challa huffed and attempted a weak smile probably more akin to grimace. He couldn’t quite smile, the expression felt as if it slipped through his fingers, but he nodded and asked, “How did you get in here.

“Okoye.”

N’Jadaka replied with a shrug even as his fingers brushed gently over the back of his neck and over his shoulders, it settled T’Challa, brushed away the tense line of his shoulders and he slumped forward once more. He felt exhausted as if the events of everything had finally reached him and were angry for being so long ignored.

“Come on you need some fresh air. Well as fresh as you can get here.”

His brother stated and hooked his arms under T’Challa’s and pulled him up. He sighed but it failed to hide his amusement as N’Jadaka dragged him towards the balcony and thrust the door open. He didn’t drag T’Challa outside, just plopped him onto the carpeted floor in front of the door and settled beside him, pressed side to side.

Instantly, the noise of the city filtered through the walls, the blare of traffic below, the caw of nearby birds, the rustle of wind bringing with it the faint scent of the city. T’Challa inhaled and stared out into the night at the blinking glow of the skyscrapers reaching upwards in a desperate attempt to pierce the skies.

“You’re King now T’Challa.”

N’Jadaka stated, and the words were heavy, were there and real. T’Challa flinched, everything was tensed, and he turned to face his brother, he couldn’t think about that, not now. He wasn’t ready. T’Challa said in warning, “N’Jadaka.”

“If you want me to return to Wakanda I will, I’ll come home with you. Be your second in command or whatever.”

N’Jadaka replied and his eyes stared into T’Challa’s own and they were like the sun burning, and promising, scorching everything in their path. T’Challa’s breath stuttered in his lungs as he stared into his brother’s eyes for a long moment, the words suspended between them with only the darkness to acknowledge it.

“It’s okay N’Jadaka, the U.S has become your home. I would not part you from it when I know you’re happy here. Besides Shuri has already claimed that position.”

T’Challa replied and the words felt tender, unsure, and maybe they stuck themselves into his brain. But they were right, T’Challa wanted his family to be happy above all else and if that meant a distance of a thousand miles then it was okay.

“You’re such a self-sacrificing idiot you know? I miss Wakanda too. But I know what you mean T’Challa, I’ll wait, let you sort things out, come home for the coronation or something. Shuri can be your second in command till then but after that? I’m taking my rightful place.”

T’Challa laughed at N’Jadaka’s reply and nodded leaning his head against his brother’s shoulder with a sigh he felt deep in his chest. N’Jadaka’s fingers twitched across the carpet and as he stared out at the world beyond, he said, “I can’t wait to see what you’ll do as King T’Challa, you’re what Wakanda needs right now. What the damn well rest of the world needs too. You’re going to do great… he would be proud of you.”

T’Challa sucked in a silent breath and his fingers tightened over N’Jadaka’s as he closed his eyes and felt them burn once more with tears. N’Jadaka turned and began to fret his fingers skimming across his face as he murmured about making him cry and how Shuri was going to hit him. T’Challa laughed, it was sore in his chest and rough like rust but it was laughter as he shushed his brother and said, “Thanks. I think he would be proud of you too N’Jadaka.”

N’Jadaka stared at T’Challa for a long moment before he sighed and turned to look out into the darkness as he replied, “Yeah. Of both of us.”

They sat together in the darkness of the hotel room pressed shoulder to shoulder and watched as the sun crept over the city. It wasn’t Wakanda and yet, all the same, it reminded T’Challa fiercely of their first night together. His grief was still fresh and T’Challa wasn’t ready, wasn’t prepared for the throne. But he could do it, he would do it for his family and for Wakanda.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I mean it was kind of sad, but it was an important chapter. Also, no, this fic does not have Erik and T’Challa as a pairing, it is strictly platonic. Thank you. Reviews/comments are always appreciated, till next time!


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